


here at the end of all things

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: One Shots [7]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e06 Bastogne, Episode: s01e07 The Breaking Point, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nightmares, Snow, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Babe catches himself looking at Gene for longer than is proper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here at the end of all things

Babe has never experienced cold, like the cold of Bastogne. Philly was the only home Babe had ever known, and though the winters could be harsh, it was never like this. This cold is wrapped around his skin like a blanket showered in glass; and every time he moves, in pathetic attempts to get warm, his ODs rustle, sweat and snow and filth frozen together, layer on layer- and the _noise_. Noise is dangerous now, in a way that you can't imagine during training, no matter how aggressive the instructor. Nothing could prepare Babe for the sheer panic; the incessant fear humming away, a living thing which has crawled into his veins, growing stronger and thicker with every heartbeat. Be silent, be still, be quiet, quiet, quiet. There are worse things out there in the night, than the cold which is clawing down Babe's throat with every stilted breath.

He regrets that thought as soon as it comes, 'cause it comes with pictures that his mind just won't let him forget- Julian, with his throat torn to shreds, his hot blood gushing out and smearing across the perfect white snow. If Babe had been braver, stronger, quicker- but then, perhaps not. Perhaps it would have been the both of them, left for dead in the snow. Left for the Krauts to strip and the cold to devour.

Maybe it would have been better that way. What kinda man leaves his buddy to die alone in a pool of his own blood? It's not okay. It'll never be okay.

Babe tries not to think of Julian, or Philly; of going back home to the people he left behind, people he will probably never see again- but when he can't stop himself, because the nights are so long, here, in this frozen place at the edge of the world, well. Babe's starting to realise that it might not matter if he makes it through his war alive. He can never really go home. Because there are some things that cannot be forgiven.

Some things you can never take back.

*

It's these thoughts that are tumbling around in his head, when Doc Roe joins him at the OP. He doesn't really hear him approaching- and ain't that a creepy little thought, 'cause he could have been a Kraut, but then, no Kraut is gonna keep trying to get his attention. When he gets hit, that will be it- and maybe it'll be bad and maybe it won't, but the Kraut's either gonna keep firing, or move on. He ain't gonna stop to chit-chat.

"Babe?"

Later, when Babe thinks it over, he will realise it was this moment that did it. Because Gene is more collected than anyone else Babe has ever known (with the possible exception of Winters, who is every bit as elusive, but half of that is his rank, surely? But the Doc's a Corporal. How he managed to maintain his distance from the Company, from Toccoa until Bastogne, is something Babe will never fathom). But nothing is going to take back the use of that word. Doc doesn't use nicknames; not for anyone, not ever.

Words are special to Gene, he doesn't just throw them about like everyone else.

Where Babe could talk until he ran out of words, Gene is content with the quiet. Babe's voice can be mischievous sometimes: he stumbles his way through conversations, and even though it broke years ago, he still sometimes squeaks and makes an ass of himself.

He's pretty sure he's not the only one fascinated by Gene's easy southern drawl. The smooth way his tongue curls around vowels, bending and shaping them till they're all his. Babe's not fond of hymns or poetry or anything, but when Gene speaks, it's like greeting old friends after a long separation; words made anew under the instruction of Gene's mouth. Babe would gladly listen to anything Gene has to say.

"Hey, Gene- you called me Babe!"

Gene fixes him with that half-vacant, half-bemused stare that Babe's been seeing more and more frequently, but Babe isn't going to let it go. He does an impression of the Doc's voice, just because he can. Because here in the cold they're dying (dead men walking), all of them, one by one, and they need the Doc to be here, awake, to hold their hands, and feed them gentle lies with his soft words as the lights go out of their eyes.

*

Babe realises that his... feelings for Gene, aren't quite normal, just before Hoobler dies.

It's a crisp, white day, and they have chow, (cold, but everything here is cold), and Babe still has this, at least. This time to sit with his friends, with smokes that Luz keeps managing to get from somewhere, while Dike is off taking a walk and Lip is doing the rounds, and he catches Gene's eye and offers him a smile, and gets one in return. It's just a minute of reprieve; it's nothing really. It's just a smile. But it's a smile from Gene, just like it was Gene who, by using Babe's nickname for the first time, was able to bring Babe back from wherever the fuck he'd let his mind wander to.

He realises, in that split second, because of a silent smile in a Belgian forest, whilst freezing his ass off in this shitty war alongside some of the best people Babe has ever known, that right now, (here at the edge of the world) he wants nothing more than to be the reason for more of those smiles. And he's sure that something shows on his face, because Gene shoots him a worried look, but there's no time to think on it, because a shot rings out, clear as a chime, and Babe can recognise the sound of a Kraut bullet being fired in his sleep.

But it wasn't a Kraut. Hoobler shot himself.

He fucking _shot_ himself.

Babe can't even process the words. Hoob is gone. He'd been on about getting hold of a Luger since before D-Day, according to the Toccoa guys; and he'd finally got hold of one and-

Babe throws up what little there is in his stomach. He spits out yellow bile on to the muddy slush caked over the hard dirt that passes for soil ‘round here and he feels... utterly lost. He and Hoobler hadn't been that close, but Babe burns with the injustice of it all. Hoob had loved fighting, had always been up for anything that involved getting stuck in and making a mess- he'd kept spirits up with a grin and a tall story, and now he was gone. Just like that.

What a fucking waste.

*

Gene shares Babe's foxhole with him most nights now. So Babe shouldn't be surprised when the medic drops down beside him, looking as tired as they all feel. But something tightens in his chest, something Babe doesn't want to think about.

He snatches a few hours sleep but wakes up pretty fast when a Kraut sticks a hunting knife right in his gut; his first instinct is to scream, but all that emerges from his throat is a limp gurgle as his mouth fills with blood, and he thinks, no, god no, where's Gene, oh god, let him be safe- but Gene is right there, shaking him, and hissing; "Wake up! Babe, you gotta keep it down- !"

The darkness is complete; there are no stars, not a single light shines on them as Babe gasps, gulping in great amounts of frigid air, stunned to feel it burn his lungs; to feel where his weapon is digging into his shoulder from the awkward angle of his limbs, and find that he's alive.

"You gonna be alright?"

When Babe doesn't answer, Gene reaches for him again, fumbling for something to grip onto in the dark. Calloused fingers prod at his face, before dropping to his shoulder to clutch at his jacket. "Heffron?"

Babe doesn't think about it. He just reaches up, following the line of Gene's arm, settling his hand against the Doc's shoulder. His eyes have adjusted to the dark now, and he leans forward, letting their helmets come together with a tiny 'chink'. This close, they share the same breaths; Gene's eyes are two pools of rich dark chocolate, and he's here, and he's alive. That's all Babe needs to know.

Gene is staring at him, in the total darkness, but Babe can't get a read on his expression in the poor light, nor his voice when he says; "Heffron, get some sleep."

*

They don't talk about it.

Sometimes, Babe catches himself looking at Gene for longer than is proper. He pretends his head was in the clouds, that he wasn't focused on the sweeping curve of Gene's jaw, or wondering if the medic’s skin was always so pale back home.

He's sitting in his foxhole, alone, humming some song Toye couldn't stop singing, and he ain't thinking about anything, nothing at all. Bill drops down beside him, and Babe automatically shifts over to give him some room.

Usually, Bill's got something to say- Babe likes Bill because he's got the gift of the gab, and he ain't afraid to use it. He's a South Philly boy, through and through, and having him here is like having a little piece of home. Babe glances at him, but Bill's watching the line, with a frown on his face. He's probably thinking about Hoobler, and that is a conversation Babe wants no part in. He returns to watching the distant, silent trees.

But when Bill finally speaks, it's not Hoobler he wants to talk about.

"The Doc seem okay to you?"

It throws Babe for such a loop that he immediately turns to face his current foxhole buddy, a cold spike of fear running through him. Is something wrong with Gene?

"Whadya mean?"

Bill shrugs, suddenly fascinated with his boots. "You been spendin' an awful lot of time lookin' at him, Babe. Figured somethin’ was wrong."

Babe ain't sure he's supposed to say anything back to that. Bill's glaring at the bottom of the cramped foxhole like it insulted his mother and Babe is trying, and failing, to keep the panic curling in the pit of his stomach from exploding out of his mouth in a shower of words.

"Naw." Babe settles for something simple. "Not- not nothing bad. Just. I think he pushes himself too much, is all. Just... makin' sure he don't snap."

Bill rubs his hands together, absent-mindedly, but when he catches Babe's eye, there's the same steel and determination there as always. "Don't be an asshole, Babe."

Babe's too confused to say anything other than; "What?"

Bill swivels around, making sure no one is looking at them, before snatching a hold of Babe's arm and dragging him closer so he can whisper: "Ol' Gonorrhoea don't miss nothin', Babe. So, don't treat me like a fucking idiot, right? Ain't no one that's got it worse than a medic. Least if you've got a mortar round or a grenade or a rifle in your hands, you always know what's what. Medic's gotta run round every goddamned place looking for men who dunno what's wrong with 'em, and fix 'em up, best they know how."

Babe doesn't have a clue where this is leading, so he swallows nervously and merely nods his head. He knows Gene's job is the toughest in the Company; he knows not everyone is cut out for it. Babe certainly couldn't reassure fellas the way Gene can with just the squeeze of his hand.

"Everyone knows what the guys get up to in the night Babe. And no one's gonna get mad 'bout a little something to take the edge off. God knows..." Bill trails off, before setting his jaw and glaring at him. "But you bring that shit out in the open, and you get caught by some green Looey with a point to prove, it ain't just you they'll be kicking out the Airbourne with dishonourable discharge. Plenty of good soldiers only breathin' today 'cause of Doc. Not sure I wanna imagine Easy without him. So don't make me tell you twice, Babe."

Babe's not entirely sure what he's been told, if he's honest. But he's used to being given orders that don't make much sense, so he just nods and says, "Yes, Sarge," and tries not to let his mouth hang open as Bill stalks back to his own foxhole.

He returns to watching the line, waiting, staring out into the distant snow, and prays for the end to come soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago and I always intended to add more, but now I like it as it is.
> 
> Title taken from The Lord of the Rings;  
> "I'm glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee, here at the end of all things."  
>  _\- Frodo Baggins, The Return of the King_


End file.
